The Last Open Road Page 22

  "You Carlo Sebastian?" Big Ed asked. The guy nodded and ushered us in. It was dark in there, what with just a naked 40-watt bulb over the doorway and a couple trouble lights glowing in back where I could hear a ratchet wrench click-click-clicking and the unmistakable scrape of a creeper rolling across a concrete floor. I could make out five or six cars scattered in the shadows, and it took awhile before my eyes got accustomed to the light and I realized they were all Ferraris! Every one of them! My mouth went all dry on me, and I swear I could hear my heart pounding inside my chest.

  Carlo Sebastian grandly introduced himself as "the exclusive Ferrari factory representative to the United States and all of North America." Which meant he probably got his hands on maybe a dozen cars a year. Not much by Ford and Chevy standards, but these weren't exactly Fords or Chevys. Not hardly. Why, you could buy yourself a couple each Fords and Chevys for the price of a new Ferrari. If you could get one, that is. There was a lot of pomp and strut to this Carlos Sebastian character, but you had to love him because he radiated excitement and could turn up that smile of his like a damn klieg light whenever he wanted to. "My shop is modest," he said, sweeping his hands around like you might have missed how modest it was. "Ah, but my cars. . ." — he softly kissed the tips of his fingers—". . . there is nothing else like them in the world. Not anywhere. . . ."

  "We know th—" Big Ed started in, but Carlo Sebastian stopped him short.

  "Come! Let me show you!" he said with a flourish, flipping a wall switch that fizzed on a dim row of fluorescent lights. "Look!" he cried, leaping between the cars. "See the kind of automobiles true genius can produce!"

  My God, you should've seen those cars! There were three coupes and two roadsters gleaming in the half-light like a pack of sleek carnivores under a jungle moon. Each one had that unmistakable enamel medallion on the nose with the rampant black stallion reared up against a bright yellow background, but beyond that, it seemed no two were exactly alike. Carlo Sebastian was nice enough to take us on a whirlwind tour, explaining all about the cars, the great races they'd won, and all the brave, skillful heroes who'd driven them to victory. As he spoke, his hands sculptured pictures in the air and his shop coat trailed behind him, swirling up little fanfare plumes of dust. That Carlo Sebastian was one hell of a showman, no two ways about it.

  The cars were enough to make you wet your pants, anyway.

  "This," he said, pointing to one of the coupes, "is a 212 Export by Vignale [pronounced Vihn-yah-laye] and that roadster is a Barchetta [Bar-ket -ta] from Superleggera [Soo-per-ledge-err-a] Touring [just like in English]." Naturally, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I was as impressed as all getout anyway. Turns out the Ferrari factory only builds the chassis and running gear and then ships the whole shebang off to one of these specialist panel-beating shops called Carrozzeria. I think Italy must be absolutely lousy with them, on account of I heard Carlo Sebastian mention Ferrari bodywork by Vignale, Touring, Ghia, Bertone, Pinin Farina, Boano, Drogo, Scaglietti, and Zagato, and I suspect some of them aren't much more than little two-by-four, back-alley, father-and-son bump shops. But that's where every single one of those breathtaking Ferrari shapes comes from. One at a time. And that's why each and every Ferrari is a little different from each and every other Ferrari—like a signed piece of sculpture or something, you know? But no matter who did the coachwork, every Ferrari manages to have that special Ferrari look, and, as Carlo Sebastian took pains to explain, there's simply nothing else like it in the whole damn world.

  But the bodywork is just window dressing compared to what goes on under the hoods and beneath the fenderwells where the real Ferrari magic lives. Take the engines, for example. Ferrari V-12s are simply the most elegant, symmetrical, awesomely beautiful automotive power plants you'll ever see. The idea is simple: for any given displacement, a large number of small cylinders can rev higher, run smoother, and produce more horsepower than a lesser number of large cylinders. But it's the way Ferrari engines are built that really sets them apart. They have overhead camshafts and hemispherical combustion chambers like a Jaguar, but they're all done up in fine cast aluminum trimmed in this high-class crinkly enamel finish. They've got two distributors—one for each cylinder bank!—that incidentally point straight forward to keep the hood as low as possible, and fancy Weber carburetors down the center of the vee (sometimes three of 'em!) that probably mix fuel and air together better than anything on the planet. Why, even the damn air cleaners look like dining table centerpieces! Two liters not fast enough for you? Then how about 2.3? Or 2.6? Or 3.3? Or 4.1? Or 4.4? Or even more! Why, Ferrari tools up whole new engines faster than GM cranks out fresh color schemes and new model year interior trim.

  But Big Ed Baumstein wasn't interested in crinkle-finish cam covers or Weber carburetors or even Carlo Sebastian's fabulous Ferrari stories. What Big Ed wanted was to get his hands on a Ferrari of his own. Any Ferrari. That would show those tight-ass jerks on the S.C.M.A. membership committee that he meant business. Which is why Big Ed kept edging toward the heap of low, hot curves slumbering under a flannel cover against the far wall. "So what's that one?" he asked like he didn't really care.

  "Aaahhhh," Carlo Sebastian sighed, his smile brightening up twenty or thirty kilowatts. "That, my friend, is sculptured fire!" He swept the cover back like a matador making a pass and underneath was the most dangerous-looking automobile I'd ever laid eyes on: a full-tilt 4.1-liter Ferrari racing car, done up in brilliant bright yellow with big white number circles on the hood and doors.

  "Jee-zus," Big Ed said softly, and Carlo Sebastian nodded.

  "How fast'll it go?" I asked like a damn schoolkid.

  "Fast enough, my friend, fast enough."

  Right away Big Ed wanted that car—wanted it bad! —and it occurred to him that underneath all the buttery phrases and Continental veneer, Carlo Sebastian was just another smooth-talking automobile salesman. And if there was one type of person Big Ed knew how to handle, it was car salesmen. "Saaay, lissen," he said, running his hands down into his pants pockets, "how much would it take—cash money —to drive this thing outta here?"

  Carlo looked at Big Ed like he didn't comprehend. "To drive it where?"

  "You know, outta here. I'm talkin' right now! CAAAAASH money!" As you can see, Big Ed hit every single car salesman hot button known to man.

  Carlo Sebastian sighed and shook his head like he was terribly, terribly disappointed. "Oh, my dear friend," he said sadly, "this car is not for sale." He swept his hand around the shop again. "None of my Ferraris are ever for sale. . . ."

  "They're not?"

  "Oh, no! These automobiles are already sold. Ferraris are always already sold. . . ."

  "They are?"

  "Certainly. If you wish to buy a Ferrari, my friend"—Carlo held up a manicured index finger—"you must be prepared to wait. As you most assuredly know, nothing of value is ever easily attained." For just an instant I thought about Julie and hoped Carlo knew what he was talking about.

  Big Ed and Carlo jawed back and forth for a while, and the gist of it was that you could put down a deposit (a substantial deposit!) and Carlo Sebastian would be happy to order a car for you. A "production" model, mind you, not an ex-works racing car. Then it might take as much as a year for the car to arrive (and sometimes even longer!) and there was never any guarantee that what you ordered would actually show up, seeing as how the factory was constantly changing, modifying, replacing, and discontinuing model lines, not to mention that Enzo Ferrari always built what he bloody well wanted regardless of what his customers had on order. After all, what did they know?

  And that was just the production cars. Ex-works racing examples were even more difficult to obtain. Why, everyone wanted a Ferrari racing car, did they not? The Ferrari race shop produced only a scant handful of competition cars every season, and they were always spoken for when the factory team was done with them. Always. . . .

  "Get a Ferrari racing car? Hah! It is simply not possible, my friend. No
t possible at all." Carlo reached his tiny little arm as far as it would go around Big Ed's massive shoulders. "You must understand," he continued in a fatherly tone, "it is not simply a question of money and time and patience. . . ."

  "It isn't?"

  "Certainly not, Mr. Baumstein. For example, this car is on its way to a fine gentleman named Ernesto Julio. You are perhaps familiar with the name?"

  Big Ed nodded. Hell, anybody who's ever been in a damn liquor store knows Ernesto Julio. Why, he did for the California wine business what Henry Ford did for the automobile manufacturing business in Detroit. Exactly, in fact. But I never heard that he raced sports cars. "Say, I didn't know he raced cars," I said.

  "Oh, he doesn't ," Carlo Sebastian explained. "Not himself, anyway. Ernesto Julio is a great aficionado, a great sportsman, a true patrone. . . ."

  "A what?"

  " A patrone, my friend. He buys the very latest machinery—the very best! —and searches out only the most promising young talents—the gifted ones—to drive for him. That is why we sell him our most powerful and advanced machines, because . . . ," he looked Big Ed right in the eye—". . . because my reputation, Ferrari's reputation, is built on one thing: winning. We must ensure our cars have the best possible opportunity to do what they are bred for: to win! That is why they are entrusted only to those who have proven, shall we say, capable. . . ."

  Big Ed didn't like that at all, and you could see the color starting to come up on his face again. Which meant that this was probably a good time to mosey off and take myself a tour of Carlo's shop. I hate scenes, and Big Ed had a real knack for creating them. So I followed the sound of that clicking ratchet wrench into the back of the shop, and located the source when I tripped over a pair of legs sticking out from under a 212 coupe with bodywork by Touring. I leaned in and looked down past the gracefully curved oil filler and the delicate branches of the exhaust header to where a pair of dark, beady black eyes and a familiar Italian nose were staring back up at me. "Hi," I said, "wat'cha doin' down there?"

  "Whassit lookalike I'm a-doin', ey? Poundin' a-my fuckin' pud?" And that, by and large, was my formal introduction to Alfredo Muscatelli, one of the infamous wrench-spinning Muscatelli brothers from the old neighborhood in Brooklyn. There were three all told—Alfredo, Giuseppe, and Sidney—and they all worked for Carlo Sebastian. As you probably guessed, Sidney was more or less a half brother, and therein lies an interesting story. I first heard about it from one of Big Ed's truck drivers, about how Alfredo and Giuseppe's dad was highly respected around the old neighborhood for the stout and reliable explosive devices he could whip up out of a few sticks of dynamite and an ordinary Woolworth's five-and-dime alarm clock. The work wasn't steady, but it paid well, and Alfredo and Giuseppe's dad made quite a tidy living during the Prohibition years. But it all went wrong one black day in 1926, when the elder Muscatelli fell victim to some terribly shoddy workmanship on the part of whoever put in the low bid on alarm clocks to the Woolworth's chain that year. And so Alfredo and Giuseppe's father went to his eternal reward (along with a half block of choice Brooklyn real estate), leaving his poor wife and two little bambinos to fend for themselves. Needless to say, he didn't leave much in the way of life insurance, as it was rather hard to come by in his line of work. But Alfredo and Giuseppe's mother was recommended to a clever young Jewish lawyer named Sid Moskowitz with the intent of perhaps suing the Woolworth's people for leaving her in such a fix. The lawyer ultimately advised against it, but there was a silver lining in that he took a real shine to the widow Muscatelli. Especially after he found out about the safe-deposit boxes scattered all over New York and New Jersey under the names of obscure characters from Verdi operas. Soon afterward he and the widow Muscatelli were married in a civil ceremony, and little Sid Jr. followed right on schedule some seven months later. But during the widow's eighth month, slippery old Sid met an elevator operator with exceptional lungs named Loreli Pomerantz, and the two of them mysteriously disappeared just a few days after little Sid Jr. was born. Along with most of the safe-deposit box goodies. It was the talk of the stairwells and back porches of the old neighborhood for weeks, and the general consensus was that something should-a be done! Sure enough, Sid Moskowitz turned up a few months later in Havana, Cuba. All over Havana, in fact, seeing as how the starter solenoid on his brand-new Packard somehow shorted out against a half-dozen sticks of blasting powder. Rumor has it they put a few Packard parts in the coffin (just to give it a little heft, you understand) since most of Sid Sr. wound up as pigeon food in and around the greater Havana area. It was almost as if Alfredo and Giuseppe's dad had personally reached down from the heavens (or up from Someplace Else) and done the job himself. You gotta hand it to the Sicilians when it comes to revenge.

  Anyhow, young Alfredo and Giuseppe inherited clever fingers and the gift of mechanical intuition from their father, and eventually went into the garage business in the old neighborhood. They were tough, hardworking guys with strong hands, gravelly voices, the right kind of connections (thanks to their father, God rest his soul), and hot loins for anything in a tight skirt, and soon earned an enviable reputation for souping up getaway cars and taking stray bullet holes out of sheet metal. Business was good, and pretty soon the Muscatelli brothers branched out into retail work, fixing the occasional carburetor or brake master cylinder for people without thick window glass, violin cases, or long criminal records.

  To Alfredo and Giuseppe's everlasting credit, they took little Sid Jr. into the business with them, even though he couldn't so much as change oil without slicing off a knuckle or spilling the contents of the drain pan all over the floor. But Sid Jr. was quick with numbers and good with the customers and kept the best-organized parts inventory in all of Brooklyn, none of which were exactly strong points with his swarthy, barrel-chested half brothers. Sid Jr. was a spindly, happy-faced little geek with thinning hair, fading freckles, and a goofy, near-permanent smile. Also unlike the other two, everybody who met Sid Jr. seemed to like him.

  Anyhow, the three of them got a reputation for fixing mechanical things so they stayed fixed and keeping their mouths shut about who brought what into their shop, and their business prospered. Especially during the depression and war years, when people had to hang on to older machinery instead of buying new and were always on the lookout for replacement tires, batteries, and extra gas ration coupons of no-questions-asked origin. But a crackdown by some cowboy assistant D.A. with dreams of becoming a councilman or judge or something brought unwanted attention to their thriving little business and ultimately caused many of their best customers to take their work elsewhere rather than run the gauntlet of unmarked police cars that inevitably parked at both ends of the alley. Plus they were getting hassled by the I.R.S. (theirs was strictly a cash business and the books amounted to no more than a couple old washtubs full of scribbled notes and receipts—mostly in Italian—that had somehow accidentally had a couple loads of laundry done in them. Heavy on the bleach). These were devastating developments, and just about the time the three Muscatelli brothers needed a place to run, Carlo Sebastian rang them up to ask if they'd like to work at his new Ferrari shop in Manhattan. To sweeten the pot, there was a free trip to the Ferrari factory in Italy for all three (at least until the heat blew over, anyway) if they signed on.

  So Alfredo, Giuseppe, and Sid Jr. went to the factory for "training" in early 1951, and even got to join the Ferrari racing team for the Mille Miglia, which Ferrari won that year. That was one hell of a race, running flat-out from Brescia to Rome and back—a thousand miles! —on ordinary, everyday Italian roads. It took iron men with nerves of steel to drive a race like that, and Alfredo and Giuseppe always considered Stateside racing pretty tame by comparison. In fact, Alfredo's normal response to the S.C.M.A. brand of motor sport was to make a face like Benito Mussolini and sneer: "Hah! You call-a dis racing? I tell you racing: A tousan' miles, up anna down troo'da mountains, troo'da rain, troo'da fog so fuckin' tick you could-a no find-a you own assa-ho
le. Now Dat's a-racing!" Then he'd punctuate with either a colorful Sicilian hand gesture or a twelve-inch hip thrust.

  Little Sid Muscatelli enjoyed Italy, too, even if he didn't exactly work out as a racing mechanic. In fact, rumor has it he poured oil in radiators, dropped washers down carburetors, and cross-threaded every bolt he got his hands on. During one crucial pit stop, Sid Jr. yanked the right-side tires off the leading Ferrari—worn right down to the damn canvas—switched them around, and put them right back on the car. The poor driver tore off in a cloud of rubber smoke while the fresh tires were still sitting there on the curb! Plus he wound up smearing everything he touched with blood (his own, natch) but fortunately it didn't show because the cars were painted bright red anyway. On the other hand, Sid was funny and likable and had a unique talent for negotiation. His skill with hotel owners, restaurateurs, and local hookers made him more than welcome even after the team learned not to let him near the damn race cars.

  And now all three of them worked for Carlo Sebastian, Alfredo and Giuseppe doing the hands-on mechanical stuff while Sid Jr. ran the parts and Customer Excuses departments. To tell the truth, I envied the hell out of those guys on account of Carlo's Ferraris were so beautiful and exotic and, well, hot.